To spite her she had committed a crime as like murder as one snake is like another, and imperilled her own mother’s life!  It was enough to drive her to despair, to make her scourge herself with rods!

When Susannah kissed her at parting for the night she complained of a slight sore throat and of her lips, which she fancied must be swollen.  Katharina detained her, questioned her with a trembling voice, put the lamp close to her, and held her breath while she examined her face, her neck, and her arms for the dreadful spots.  But none were to be seen and her mother laughed at her terrors, called her a dutiful, anxious child, and warned her not to be too full of fears, as they were supposed to invite the disease.

All night the girl could not sleep.  Her malicious triumph was past; nothing but painful thoughts and grewsome images haunted her while awake, and pursued her more persistently when she dozed.  By dawn of day her alarm for her mother was so great that she sprang out of bed and went to her room; Susannah was sleeping so soundly that she did not even hear her.  Much relieved Katharina crept back to bed; but in the morning the worst had happened:  Susannah could no longer leave her bed; she was feverish, and on her lips, the very lips which had kissed her child’s infected hair, there were indeed, between her nose and mouth, the first terrible, unmistakable spots.

The leech came and confirmed the fact.—­The house was closed and barred.

The physician and Susannah, who was still in full possession of her senses, wished and insisted that Katharina should withdraw to the gardener’s house, but she refused with defiant obstinacy, saying she would rather die with her mother than leave her.

Quite beside herself she threw herself on the sick woman, and kissed the spots on her mouth to divert the poison into her own blood; but the physician angrily pulled her away, and the sufferer reproved her with tears in her eyes which spoke her fervent affection.

She was now allowed to nurse her mother.  Two nuns came to her assistance, and said, not only to the rich widow but behind her back, that they had never seen so devoted and loving a daughter.  Even Bishop John, who did not shrink from entering the houses of the sick to give them spiritual consolation, praised Katharina’s conduct; and he, who had hitherto regarded the water-wagtail as no more than a bright, restless child, treated her with respect, talked to her as to a grown-up person, and answered her questions—­which for the most part referred to Paula—­gravely and fully.

The prelate, who was full of admiration for Thomas’ daughter, told Katharina how, to save her lover, she had taken a crime upon herself which deprived her of every claim to mercy.  The Syrian girl was only a Melchite, but to take another’s guilt, out of love, was treading indeed in the footsteps of Christ, if ever anything was.  At this Katharina shrugged her shoulders, as though to say:  “Do you think so much of that?  Could not I gladly have done the same?”